I want to pour you thirteen cups of tea,

strawberry and cranberry, twirling, swirling,

like your eyebrows lifted when I said I didn’t want to have sex.

I want to braid your voice when you sing into my daydreams,

to write you songs made of honey, weave my memories into your stories,

to make tomorrow something we do together.

 

I want to make you raspberry brownies

and hot chocolate like my mormor used to make it,

floral aprons and warm milk,

like the smells in the café when you said you couldn’t care less.

 

I want to see poetry slip across your lips,

to see art in hands on hips.

paintbrush nails across naked bodies

resting next to each other;

touching, home,

safe.

 

I want to yell at stars with you

like people have always yelled at stars.

I do not know what astronauts eat,

but if they eat freeze-dried cheese on toast I want to eat that with you,

our helmets resting next to us on the ceiling,

 

and as we pull the covers around us and float in our spaceship,

I want to be next to you in bed so close

that when you turn around I’m already in your arms,

your hand across my waist,

your thumb rubbing fairy tales into my stomach.

 

I want to leave kisses on your fingertips

and never be wasteful with the touches on your eyelids.

I want to see the way your eyes glow in the candles that you light.

 

I pull your arms around me.

Touching, home,

safe.